


The Private Lives of the New Romantics

by Anne_Animouse



Category: Adam Ant - Fandom, Music RPF
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-01
Updated: 2011-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Animouse/pseuds/Anne_Animouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a strange ritual even for a musician to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Private Lives of the New Romantics

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and written at 4 in the morning when inspiration struck. I suppose that should be warned for.

Musicians are strange people. Adam knew that first hand, and had done for as long as he could remember. Even as a child out walking Paul McCartney's dogs, he had seen what sort of weird idiosyncrasies constituted normal life for a professional musician. It was a free-for-all of superstition and ritual, and he loved every minute of it.

But sometimes even he had to acknowledge that he might take it a little far. When one of his strange moods would come over him, and he'd have to take matters into his own hands or risk breaking down.

It always started the same way, that prickling itchy feeling that something just wasn't right. Like his skin was too small, his body vibrating inside just waiting for the right moment to tear apart at the seams. In his younger days he'd taken to drinking to ease the tension, but one too many mornings waking up in a strange bed had taught him that he was better off not messing with that stuff. So he'd turned to other methods for distraction.

It had been Marco who'd shown him how best to handle it, not that Adam would ever let on. During one of those rambling discussions that always seemed to happen in the hours between too-late at night and too-early in the morning, the subject of conversation had made its way to Japanese rope bondage, and the therapeutic effects of bondage in general. Purely theoretical, Adam had been assured. Marco wasn't in to that sort of thing, after all, and even if he were, it wasn't the sort of thing you talked about. At least not when you were sober, and he knew better than to get drunk around Adam without a damned good excuse.

It amused Adam how people took his dislike of drinking and heavy partying to mean he was some sort of innocent. He didn't try too hard to dissuade them of their opinion, of course, the rumours were wild enough as it was. So he had smiled and nodded in all the right places as Marco fumbled the conversation back onto something safe... the football scores or an upcoming tour date or something, Adam couldn't remember. He had been too distracted, mind whirring over the suggestion Marco had unknowingly made. He knew first hand that sex helped, but he wasn't the sort of person to fuck and run, and when you were constantly on the road touring, it wasn't exactly easy to form a lasting relationship, so he hadn't ever really thought about it as a viable long-term solution. But what Marco had been talking about... well, that just might be doable.

He thought a great deal about that conversation over the next few weeks, and when he felt the familiar tightness in his chest, and found his thoughts fluttering at a million miles a minute, he'd already formulated a plan. It was simpler than he'd thought, actually. He had quite a good deal of fabric and leather straps lying around the flat, and it had only taken a few trial attempts before he worked out a method that seemed to work. He was a creative guy, after all. He started on his left hip, wrapping a long leather strap around the top of his left thigh, high enough that it would easily be covered under the boxers he habitually stripped down to during his performances. He wound the strap up his thigh, pulling it between his legs to press gently between his cheeks, and wrapping it snugly around his waist, before winding it across his right hip, and wrapping the other end tightly around the top of his right thigh. An extra silk scarf had been wrapped around the leather belt at his waist, and he'd twisted it a few times until it had formed a loose silk rope. He'd taken himself in hand, a few slow teasing rubs all it took to bring him fully hard. He'd wound the silk chord around the base of his cock, cinching it tightly into an improvised cock ring. He'd wrapped a bit more of the chord around the length of his cock, and then twisted it down and around his balls, pulling it so tightly he gasped, and water came to his eyes. He'd wiped it away with a shake of his head, and pulled the end of the chord back up to tie around the other side of the black leather belt.

He had examined his handiwork in the mirror, the stark contrasts of black leather and white silk wrapped around his reddened flesh, and had shivered at it. He'd rubbed his hands on the pimpled flesh of his arms, his chest, anywhere but where he ached to rub. It was an exercise in control, and as he held himself still and let the shivers tremble along his flesh, he'd felt the tightness in his chest ease. His thoughts had slowed as his pulse raced and a slow creeping sensation of peace had filled him. Giving one last lingering look into the mirror, he'd smiled to himself and pulled his boxers up, checking to make sure the straps really wouldn't show if he forgot himself and kicked a bit too vigorously during the show. Not that he thought that would happen any time soon. The mere act of walking was enough to make him gasp, if he wasn't careful how he placed his weight. But a few practice turns around the room had him almost at his usual gait, and he was sure if anyone noticed a slight hitch in his step, the last thing they would think was that he had his cock trapped in a handmade vice.


End file.
